Sleeping
by Scarlet Scully
Summary: My take on Han's thoughts while encased in carbonite. Some HanLeia. Rated M to be safe. Please send all money to George... Han Solo belongs to him... and Harrison. But sadly, not to me.


_A/N: A little something that I wanted to explore. It's not too long, so please read and review. Rating on the safe side._

**Sleeping**

_Summary: My take on Han's thoughts while he is encased in carbonite. A stream of consciousness kind of thing. Rated M. Some HanLeia._

They say that a mind is a wonderful thing. They say that it is the single difference between those that rule and those that serve. More than any other feature of anatomy or any other ability - opposable thumbs, walking upright, verbal communication - the mind separates the masses. The ability to reason and focus on more than the need to eat, sleep and procreate. It was the mind that determined who would be the rider and who would be bearing the saddle and rope.

The mind isn't so wonderful. Take away the need to eat, sleep and procreate and that thing that makes you want to take the yoke of a ship and chase through the stars is the only thing left. Only there isn't a ship and there aren't any stars and suddenly you have the equivalent of a two-year old on too many sweets and too much kaffe and he's been locked in a room with four blank walls and nothing else. This great thing that can quickly analyze and adapt to millions of stimuli is wholly incapable of adapting to a complete lack of external stimulus.

This is why I have to keep up this analysis. I hate my mind right now, just like I would hate to be locked in that empty room with that crazy two-year-old. The two-year-old can't find ways to amuse himself. You can't tell a two-year-old to sit in the corner and daydream. Especially not when he's overflowing with energy and has a captive audience to attempt to convert to his playmate.

Imagine Chewie locked in that room with that two-year-old. Or better yet - don't. The kid might find himself knocked out cold after only a few minutes time.

Maybe that's the secret. Maybe I should just let Chewie knock my mind out. Wait… that doesn't work. Chewie's not here.

Think, Solo. But that's the problem isn't it? I'm thinking… my mind is working… it never tires… it never sleeps. How can I knock out my mind?

Let it go wild.

Is that the answer? Would the two-year-old eventually run himself into the ground if I stopped telling him to sit in the corner and play nice and instead just let him run around like a mad-wook until he either crashed into a wall or burnt himself out?

Maybe struggling to control my thoughts is what is keeping my mind awake. But what happens when a mind sleeps? Would that mean that I've finally died?

Would that be so bad?

I don't know the answer to that question.

And she is there… ivory skin framed by sleek dark tresses. A few, loose tendrils escape the confines of her braid and he can feel their silky texture as he tucks one behind her ear. His finger trails down her jaw and her lips part slightly, begging him to taste them. The collar of the white shirt he has loaned her gapes invitingly and he caresses her neck, slipping his hand beneath the shirt. His calloused fingers stroke her velvet skin before tangling again in her silky tresses.

No!

The pleasure is worse than the pain. You already know that these visions do more harm than good. These half-memories, half-experiences that your mind keeps forcing on you are really just another form of torture. Your heart beats more quickly. Desire courses with the blood in your veins. But it doesn't.

His lips meet hers and his tongue teases an entrance into her mouth. The hand tangled in her hair demands more of her kiss and his free hand strokes her breast through the soft linen of her shirt. Her nipple presses against his hand, demanding his attention and then there is nothing between his rough hand and her warm flesh.

Stop!

This is going nowhere. It can't. Think of the two-year-old in the room with the wookie. This pleasure isn't real. It won't be real. It will end with pain.

She stands before him, confusion plain in her dark eyes.

I'm sorry princess. I want to remember you. I want to think of all of our times together. I want to dream of those nights in my cabin… those nights before we were betrayed. I can't. I can't think of you and not think of those nights and I can't think of those nights.

I should have said 'I love you, too.'

I hate my mind. It's the only thing that's still working normally. It seems to be the only part of me that doesn't know that we are supposed to be hibernating. Humans weren't meant to hibernate, or at least I'm not.

When did I start to think of me and my mind as we?

There is only one 'we' and the other part of that 'we' is that part that I'm not supposed to think about.

If you continue to think of her than your mind will continue to act as it should. It will continue to make you think that you are experiencing what you are remembering. It will continue to tell you to remember how you felt when you were with her… how it felt to be with her.

Her hot, damp flesh presses against his own. Her back arches in pleasure. Her breasts thrust forward and he suckles each one thoroughly, enjoying the saltiness that mixes with the taste that he has come to know as undeniably Leia.

Don't do this don't do this don't do this don't do this.

You know you've probably already gone too far. You know that your mind is going to catch up soon. Soon it's going to realize that the whole point of this exercise is pleasure… the release of endorphins… and the release of other things.

Only, there is no release. Nothing else is working. I'm not even sure that your heart is still beating, that blood is still coursing through your veins. I just know that it seems like time has frozen everything… everything except your mind. And your mind hasn't figured it out yet.

How long does it take to train a mind? Maybe this time it won't equate the lack of pleasure with the presence of…

PAIN!

Electrical currents course through his body and he screams in agony.

It's…

Not…

Real…

The scan grid glows before him and the energy pulses through him and the photoreceptors in his brain fire wildly as white lights flash blindingly. The heat is unbearable and he feels his skin explode in flame.

Your…

Skin…

Is not burning.

His throat aches from screaming and soon his voice fades as his vocal cords protest their abuse. He watches as a needle pierces his flesh and knows the effects of the drugs that are being pushed into his veins. The scan grid approaches again and he is screaming now before it sears through the thin material of his shirt. He prays for the blackness that refuses to engulf him and end his pain. It doesn't hear him.

Why why why why why why whywhywhywhywhy?

What can I tell you to make this stop? Ask me, I'll answer. Just ask. Why don't you ask?

Nothing.

Eventually, the pain subsides. It seemed to last hours, weeks, years. I have no idea of time, of how much time has passed. What if I get out of this thing and it's been so long that everyone has already died or moved on? What if the only reason I get out is because someone finally found me hundreds of years later, stashed in some storehouse in a back corner and decides to wake me up?

Chewie wouldn't let it get that far.

A picture of a bent and beaten Chewbacca flashed briefly. His fur matted with blood, his arm held awkwardly at his side.

But what if something happened to Chewie?

Wookies lived long lives, but they all eventually die. How long can I stay like this? Could I outlive him? Would he spend the rest of his life searching? He might just give up after a while. Go back to Kashyyk and have a life. He deserves a good life. Maybe he's already given up. Maybe he's already started his new life.

How long has it been? How much longer will it be?

_A/N: Finis. Please send me your feedback, good or bad. This was something of an experiment for me and I'm anxious to know how it's received. Scarlet._


End file.
